


Fallout

by geckoholic



Category: Strike Back
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-24
Updated: 2013-11-24
Packaged: 2018-01-02 13:23:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1057267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/geckoholic/pseuds/geckoholic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>A few quick fucks and a whispered promise aren't enough to get someone out of this life. It they were, Mike wouldn't be here right now.</em> - Quick coda to 4.02, takes place before the final scene.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fallout

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by totallybalanced; thank you, BB! ♥ All remaining mistakes are mine. 
> 
> Title is from "Fallout" by Alter Bridge.

He stays under the shower until his whole body's gone numb. The water's as hot as it goes – he's actually kinda impressed the old, weathered generator managed to work up that much heat – and at first it's like another round of torture, downright searing on the wounds from the re-purposed cattle prod. It takes a while until the pain flows out of him like the blood that runs down his torso. The tension in his muscles lessens, never all the way, not with the life he leads, but down to a bearable level. The only part of him that won't stop sending a dull ache up his spine with every heartbeat is his junk. 

Goddamn motherfucker. Scott's no saint, but he will never understand the sheer joy some people seem to feel at hurting others. He's got some baseline cruelty that rears its head now and then, like everyone else in this line of work, but _interrogation_ has never been something he could get behind. 

Mike's already been in here, quick and efficient shower like a good soldier ought to, so Scott doesn't feel bad for staying under the spray until the water's starting to turn lukewarm. His head's swimming a bit when he turns it off, fishes blindly for a towel, dries himself up and puts on a clean t-shirt and some pants. He pats down the hallway of the old barrack they've occupied barefoot, doesn't mind that he'll get a fresh layer of grime and dust on his feet. Comes with the territory. 

He heads for his makeshift quarters, and isn't too surprised when he finds Mike sitting on his cot, looking up when he enters the room. “There you are, just when I thought I might have to check on you. Make sure you didn't manage to drown yourself in the shower.” 

Judging from Mike's thin lips and entirely unamused expression which doesn't fit the quip at all, that's code for _I was this close to making sure you didn't pass out in there_. Like he's one to talk; Scott can see the edge of the med tape on his chest through the neck of his shirt. 

Only then do his eyes fall to the small assortment of supplies that sits right next to Mike's leg. More tape, antiseptic wipes, the whole ordeal. “We're all out of pretty nurses, then?” 

“Shut up and sit down,” says Mike, not missing a beat, too used to that sort of commentary to still roll his eyes about it, and Scott complains with a token roll of his shoulders. Not the first time one of them patched the other up, and Scott briefly wonders who did it for Mike earlier. Richmond, probably, or Martinez, what with her inexplicable soft spot for him. 

There's already flesh blood on his T-shirt when he pulls it up over his head and he balls it up to throw it into a corner, right under Mike's disapproving gaze. He's the sort of guy that makes his bed in the way that a small child could use it as a trampoline, all military-like, and sometimes Scott's now sure how he still cares about shit like that. To each their own, though. They're not on the same page about a lot of things, but that doesn't bother either of them, not anymore. It makes them better, together, as a team. If Scott had to work with someone who was too much like himself, he would've probably gone bonkers a long time ago. 

The first touch of the disinfectant makes him flinch, an instinctive reaction he can't quite suppress. Mike doesn't miss a beat though, and when he moves on to the next spot, Scott's prepared. The two of them sit in silence until Mike tapes down the last of it, hand lingering a little too long to not betray that he's worried, and probably not about the burns either. They're getting hurt on the daily, it's routine, nothing to get excited about. 

Mike gathers up the supplies, then turns to throw the used wipes and the packaging of the tapes into the trash. His eyebrows crease a little when he faces Scott again, and yep, neon sign right there. “She did her job. Just like we do. You couldn't have –“ 

He's smart enough not to finish that sentence. What? Saved her? Like he tried, like he promised? Of course he couldn't have. Damien Scott isn't anyone's knight in shining armor, that's not what he's good for. A few quick fucks and a whispered promise aren't enough to get someone out of this life. It they were, Mike wouldn't be here right now. 

Mike doesn't pick the thread back up, just rises to his feet and wipes his hand on Scott's discarded T-shirt , and the moment passes like it always does when they forget to bullshit each other long enough to have something akin to an adult conversation. He stops in the doorway, face now closed up and professional. “Dalton and Locke have Kamali in the basement. She wants us to be there when they question him. Get dressed, then find me.” 

Scott nods, watches him walk out and close the door, and then does as he's told. They've got a job to do here, and it's far from over.


End file.
